The incredible truth

on the ground took shape, what had appeared to be a deso-

late waste resolved itself into Idlewild International Airport.

The skilled Swiss Pilot set the plane down with just a faint

scrunch of tires. Gently we taxied along the runway to the

Airport buildings. “Keep your seats, please!” said the

Purser. A gentle “thud” as the mobile stairway came to rest

against the fuselage, a metallic scraping, and the cabin door

was swung open. “Good-bye,” said the cabin crew, lining

the exit, “Travel with us again!” Slowly we filed down the

stairway and into the Administrative Buildings.

Idlewild was like a railway station gone mad. People

rushed everywhere, jostling any that stood in their path.

An attendant stepped forward, “This way, Customs clear-

ance first.” We were lined up by the side of moving

platforms. Great masses of luggage suddenly appeared,

moving along the platforms, stretching from the entrance

to the Customs man. The Officials walked along, rum-

maging through open cases. “Where you from, folks?”

said an Officer to me.

“Dublin, Ireland,” I replied.

“Where you going?”

“Windsor, Canada,” I said.

“Okay, got any pornographic pictures?” he asked

suddenly.

With him settled, we had to show Passports and Visas.

It reminded me of a Chicago meat packing factory, the way

people were “processed.”

Before we left Ireland we had booked seats on an Ameri-

can plane to fly us to Detroit. They agreed to take the cats

in the plane with us. Now the officials of the Airline con-

cerned repudiated out tickets, and refused to take our two

cats who had crossed the Atlantic without trouble or fuss.

For a time it seemed that we were stuck in New York, the

Airline was not remotely interested. I saw an advertisement

for “Air taxis to anywhere” from La Guardia Airfield.

Taking an airport limousine we went the several miles to a

Motel just outside La Guardia. “Can we bring in our cats?”

we asked the man at the registration desk. He looked at

them, two demure little ladies, and said, “Sure, sure,

they're welcome!” The Lady Ku'ei and Mrs. Fifi Grey-

whiskers were glad indeed to have a chance to walk about

and investigate two more rooms.

The strain of the journey was now telling upon me. I

retired to bed. My wife crossed the road to La Guardia,

trying to find what an air taxi would cost, and when we

could be taken. Eventually she returned looking worried.

“It is going to cost a lot of money!” she said.

“Well, we cannot stay here, we have to move,” I replied.

She picked up the telephone and soon arranged that on

the morrow we would fly by air taxi to Canada.

We slept well that night. The cats were quite uncon-

cerned, it even seemed that they were enjoying themselves.

In the morning, after breakfast, we were driven across the

road to the Airport. La Guardia is immense, with a plane

taking off or landing every minute of the day. At last we

found the place from whence we were to go, and we, our

cats, and our luggage were loaded aboard a small twin-

engined plane. The pilot, a little man with a completely

shaven head, nodded curtly to us, and off we taxied to a

runway. For some two miles we taxied and then pulled in

to a bay to wait our turn to take off. The pilot of a big inter-

continental plane waved to us, and spoke hurriedly into his

microphone. Our pilot uttered some words which I cannot

repeat, and said, “We have a —— puncture.”

The air was rent by a screaming police siren. A police

cruiser raced madly along a service road and pulled up

alongside us with a mad squeal of tires. “Police? What

have we done now?” I asked myself. More sirens, and the

fire brigade arrived, men spilling off as the machines

slowed. The policemen came across and spoke to our pilot.

They moved away to the fire engine, and at last the police

and firemen moved off A repair car raced along, jacked up

the plane in which we were sitting, removed the offending

wheel-and raced off. For two hours we sat there waiting

for the wheel to be returned to us. At last the wheel was

on, the pilot started his engines again, and we took off. Off

we flew, over the Alleghany range, headed first for Pittsburg.

Right over the mountains the fuel gauge—right in front of

me—dropped to zero and started knocking against the stop.

The pilot seemed blandly unaware of it. I pointed it out

and he said, in a whisper, “Ah, sure, we can always go

down!” Minutes after we came to a level space in the

mountains, a space where many light planes were parked.

The pilot circled once, and landed, taxiing along to the

petrol pumps. We stopped just long enough to have the

plane refuelled, and then off again from the snow-covered,

frozen runway. Deep banks of snow lined the sides, great

drifts were in the valleys. A short flight, and we were over

Pittsburg. We were sick of traveling, stiff and weary. Only

the Lady Ku'ei was alert, she sat and looked out of a win-

dow and appeared pleased with everything.

With Cleveland beneath us, we saw Lake Erie right in

front. Great masses of ice were piled up, while fantastic

cracks and fissures ran across the frozen lake. The pilot,

taking no risks, made course for Pelee Island, half way

across the lake. From there he flew on to Amherstburg, and

on to Windsor Airport. The Airport looked strangely quiet.

There was no bustle of activity. We moved up to the

Customs Building, alighted from the plane, and went inside.

A solitary Customs man was just going off duty—it was

after six at night. Gloomily he contemplated our baggage.

“There is no Immigration Officer here,” he said. “You will

have to wait until one comes.” We sat and waited. The slow

minutes crawled by. Half an hour, time itself seemed to

stand still, we had had no food or drink since eight o'clock

that morning. The clock struck seven. A relief Customs

man came in and dawdled about. “I can't do a thing until

the Immigration Officer has cleared you,” he said. Time

seemed to be going more slowly. Seven-thirty. A tall man

came in and went to the Immigration Offlcer's office.

Looking frustrated and a little red in the face, he came out

to the Customs man. “I can't get the desk open,” he said.

For a time they muttered together, trying keys, banging push-

217

ing. At last, in desperation, they took a screwdriver and forced

Eventually the forms were found. Wearily we filled them

in, signing here, signing there. The Immigration Officer

stamped our Passports “Landed Immigrant”.

“Now you go to the Customs Officer,” he said. Cases to

open, boxes to unlock. Forms to show, giving details of our

belongings as “Settlers”—More rubber stamps, and at last

we were free to enter Canada at Windsor, Ontario. The

Customs Officer warmed up considerably when he knew

we came from Ireland. Of Irish descent himself, with his

Irish parents still living, he asked many questions and—

wonder of wonders—he helped carry our luggage to the

waiting car.

Outside the Airport it was bitter, the snow was thick

upon the ground. Just across the Detroit River the sky-

scrapers towered aloft, a mass of light as all the offices and

rooms were illuminated, for Christmas was at hand.

We drove down the wide Ouellette Avenue, the main

street of Windsor. The River was invisible, and it looked as

if we were going to drive straight to America. The fellow

who was driving us did not seem at all sure of his direc-

tions; missing a main intersection, he made a remarkable

maneuver which made our hair stand on end. Eventually

we reached our rented house and were glad indeed to alight.

Very soon I had a communication from the Board of

Health demanding my presence, threatening terrible things

—including deportation—if I did not attend. Unfortunately

threats seem to be the main hobby of the Ontario officials,

that is why we are now going to move again, to a more

friendly Province.

At the Board of Health I was X-rayed, more details were

taken, and at last I was allowed to go home again. Windsor

has a terrible climate, and that and the attitude of officials

soon decided us to move as soon as this book is written.

Now the Rampa Story is finished. The truth has been

told, as in my other two books. I have much that I could

tell the Western world, for in astral traveling I have touched

merely upon the fringe of things which are possible. Why

send out spy planes with its attendant risks when one can

travel in the astral and see inside a council chamber? One

can see and one can remember. Under certain circumstances

one can teleport articles, if it be wholly for good. But Wes-

tern man scoffs at things he does not understand, yells

“faker” to those who have abilities which he himself does

not possess, and works himself into a frenzy of vituperation

against those who dare to be in any way “different”.

Happily I put aside my typewriter and settled down to

entertain the Lady Ku'ei and blind Mrs. Fifi Greywhiskers

who both had waited so patiently.

That night, telepathically, came the Message again.

“Lobsang! You have not yet finished your book!” My

heart sank, I hated writing, knowing that so few people had

the capacity to perceive Truth. I write of the things which

the human mind can accomplish. Even the elementary

stages described in this book will be disbelieved, yet if one

were to be told that the Russians had sent a man to Mars,

that would be believed! Man is afraid of the powers of

Man's mind, and can contemplate only the worthless things

like rockets and space satellites. Better results can be

achieved through mental processes.

“Lobsang! Truth? Do you remember the Hebrew tale?

Write it down, Lobsang, and write also of what could be,

in Tibet!”

A Rabbi, famed for his learning and his wit, was once

asked why he so often illustrated a great truth by telling a

simple story. “That,” said the wise Rabbi, “can best be

illustrated by a parable! A parable about Parable. There

was a time when Truth went among people unadorned, as

naked as Truth. Whoever saw Truth turned away in fear

or in shame because they could not face him. Truth wan-

dered among the peoples of the Earth, unwelcome, rebuffed,

and unwanted. One day, friendless and alone, he met

Parable strolling happily along, dressed in fine and many

colored clothes. ‘Truth, why are you so sad, so miserable?’

asked Parable, with a cheerful smile. ‘Because I am so old

and so ugly that people avoid me,’ said Truth, dourly.

‘Nonsense!’ laughed Parable. ‘That is not why people avoid

you. Borrow some of my clothes, go among people and see

what happens.’ So Truth donned some of Parable's lovely

garments, and wherever he now went he was welcome.”

The wise old Rabbi smiled and said, “Men cannot face

naked Truth, they much prefer him disguised in the clothing

of Parable.”

“Yes, yes, Lobsang, that is a good translation of our

thoughts, now the Tale.”

The cats wandered off to sit on their beds and wait until

I really had finished. I picked up the typewriter again,

inserted the paper, and continued . . .

From afar the Watcher sped, gleaming a ghostly blue as

he flashed over continents and oceans, leaving the sunlit

side of the Earth for the dark. In his astral state he could

be seen only to those who were clairvoyant, yet he could see

all and, returning later to his body, remember all. He

dropped, immune to cold, untroubled by thinness of air, to

the shelter of a high peak, and waited.

The first rays of the morning sun glinted briefly on the

highest pinnacles of rock, turning them to gold, reflecting

a myriad of colors from the snow in the crevices. Vague

streaks of light shot across the lightening sky as slowly the

sun peeped across the distant horizon.

Down in the valley strange things were happening.

Carefully shielded lights moved about, as if on trailers.

The silver thread of the Happy River gleamed faintly,

throwing back flecks of light. There was much activity,

strange, concealed activity. The lawful inhabitants of Lhasa

hid in their homes, or lay under guard in the forced-labor

barracks.

Gradually the sun moved upon its path. Soon the first

rays, probing downwards, glinted upon a strange shape

that loomed up far across the Valley floor. As the sunlight

grew brighter the Watcher saw the immense shape more

clearly. It was huge, cylindrical, and on its pointed end,

facing the heavens above, were painted eyes and a tooth-

ensnagged mouth. For centuries the Chinese seamen had

painted eyes upon their ships. Now, upon this Monster

the eyes glared hate.

The sun moved on. Soon the whole Valley was bathed

in light. Strange metal structures were being towed away

from the Monster, now only partly enshrouded in its

cradle. The immense rocket, towering on its fins, looked

sinister, deadly. At its base technicians with headphones

on were running about like a colony of disturbed ants. A

siren sounded shrilly, and the echoes rebounded, from rock

to rock, from mountain wall to mountain wall, blending

into a fearful, horrendous cacophony of sound which built

up, becoming louder and louder. Soldiers, guards, labor-

ers, turned on the instant and ran as fast as they could to

the shelter of the distant rocks.

Halfway up the mountain side the light glinted on a little

group of men clustered around radio equipment. A man

picked up a microphone and spoke to the inhabitants of a

great concrete and steel shelter lying half concealed about

a mile from the rocket. A droning voice counted out the

seconds and then stopped.

For scant moments nothing happened, there was peace.

The lazy tendrils of vapor seeping from the rocket were

the only things that moved. A gush of steam, and a roaring

that grew louder and louder, starting small rock-falls. The

earth itself seemed to vibrate and groan. The sound became

louder and louder until it seemed that the ear-drums must

shatter under such intensity. A great gout of flame and

steam appeared from the base of the rocket, obscuring all

below. Slowly, as if with immense, with stupendous effort,

the rocket rose. At one time it seemed to be standing station-

ary on its tail of fire, then it gathered speed and climbed up

into the quaking heavens, booming and roaring defiance to

mankind. Up, up it went, leaving a long train of steam and

smoke. The scream vibrated among the mountain tops long

after all sight of it had gone.

The group of technicians on the mountainside feverishly

watched their radarscopes, yammered into their micro-

phones, or scanned the skies with high-power binoculars.

Far, far overhead a vagrant gleam of light flashed down as

the mighty rocket turned and settled on its course.

Scared faces appeared from behind rocks. Little groups

of people congregated, with all distinction between guards

and slave-laborers temporarily forgotten. The minutes

ticked on. Technicians switched off their radar sets, for the

rocket had soared far beyond their range. The minutes

ticked on.

Suddenly the technicians leapt to their feet, gesticulating

madly, forgetting to switch on the microphones in their

excitement. The rocket, with an atomic warhead, had

landed in a far distant, peace-loving country. The land was

a shambles, with cities wrecked, and people vaporized to

incandescent gas. The Chinese Communists, with the loud-

speakers full on, screamed and shouted with glee, forgetting

all reserve in the joy of their dreadful accomplishment. The

first stage of war had ended, the second was about to start.

Exulting technicians rushed to make the second rocket

ready.

Is it fantasy? It could be fact! The higher the launching

it takes far, far less fuel. A rocket launched from the flat

lands of Tibet, seventeen thousand feet above sea level,

would be more efficient than one launched from the low-

lands. So the Communists have an incalculable advantage

over the rest of the world, they have the highest and most

efficient sites from which to launch rockets either into

space or at other countries.

China has attacked Tibet—not conquered it—so that she

shall have this great advantage over Western powers. China

has attacked Tibet so that she shall have access to India,

when she is ready, and perhaps drive on through India to

Europe. It could be that China and Russia will combine to

make a pincer thrust which could crush out the free life of

all countries that stood in their way. It could be—unless

something is done soon. Poland? Pearl Harbor? Tibet?

“Experts” would have said that such enormities could not

be. They were wrong! Are they going to be wrong again?